


i burn for you at the stake (and we make such lovely ashes)

by debeauharnais



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Rimming, and i use the word fuckin' too much, in which there's a lot of victory sex and charlie likes to please, post-friendless child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-08 21:38:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5514239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debeauharnais/pseuds/debeauharnais
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You being here isn’t optional, Benny. It’s you, me, Charlie. Always has been.”</p><p>Benny drops his gaze to where Meyer has yet to release him and Charlie’s suddenly a teller of fortunes yet to be weaved – he hears the rasp in Benny’s lungs, sees himself whole lifetimes ago (it’s 1920 and Meyer’s alive, he’s alive, they’re alive, and they touch to prove that stitched hearts can still pump blood; it’s 1931 and Benny’s alive, alive – bloody and unbroken and alive). And Charlie’s watching, thinking vaguely that two-thirds of a family had never felt quite right anyway; thinking that, looking back, it was only a matter of time, that it’s the most natural thing in the world; the finishing piece to their puzzle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i burn for you at the stake (and we make such lovely ashes)

**Author's Note:**

> im a sinner and i have accepted my fate. im so sorry. (this is how i celebrate christmas lol). also!! there are some light references to a fic i've written and that's set a few hours before this one, but that i haven't uploaded. so rip <3

He’s burning. He knows he is, can’t stop it (doesn’t want to) – and the car ride home takes too long, so long that his temper’s flaring and his blood is starting to scorch through his veins. Because he wants to share the victory with Meyer; because he wants to toast their future with the burn of whiskey and a lungful of smoke and hands  _everywhere_ ; because he doesn’t want to be sitting in the back of a fucking car at one in the morning, not when Meyer’s been eating him alive with half-hooded eyes all night (Meyer loves triumph like a drug and right now he’s  _high_ ). And Meyer’s mechanical, he thinks things through – he’ll make a move and Charlie will know that there’s  _thought_ behind it, that Meyer’s assessed all the variables, taken into account the pros, the cons, the risks and benefits (and that’s the kind of guy you want next to you, one who knows if there’s a 30% chance of defeat or a 2 in 3 chance of success). But now, Meyer’s flying blind. Charlie can see it. There’s tension, yeah – there will be until Maranzano’s dead and buried and choking on centuries-old soil. There’s rage, oh, there’s rage, because someone dared lay a hand on Benny. But there are these little walls behind Meyer’s eyes, see, and usually they’re all propped up and laid with cold mortar and  _impenetrable_ (and Charlie’s started to build his own, too) _._ But they haven’t been there for a few hours now, not since they’ve been out on the open road, where it stretches miles all round and there’s only a black horizon and the melting light of yellow headlamps and the smell of dry soil; where there’s only stones flicked up by tires and the slow breathing of kings and princes only just learning how to wield the crowns settling about their temples, only just acquainting themselves with how the lifeblood of rulers feels under their skin.

No, Meyer’s forgotten himself for the night (the morning), ripped open the parapets and let his satisfaction leech out into the darkness like a dull warmth. And it’s not something Charlie’s too familiar with, this contentment that’s softening his muscles and making him dizzy – because Meyer’s practically  _purring_ , basking in their little victory that’s been half a lifetime in the making; and it’s enough to fill Charlie with this languid calm, this absolute  _faith_  in a future he’s always been a little afraid was no more than the desperate fantasy of a child clinging to any illusion of salvation. Meyer’s bleeding pleasure and it’s like he’s saying,  _we’re safe now, Charlie; breathe._ And he does. He breathes and closes his eyes (because Meyer will stand guard, he’ll watch over him) and when he opens them, it’s New York. It’s New York and there’s this fire in Charlie’s chest crying  _(vowing)_   _this is mine; this is ours._ He’s burned it to the ground and raised it from the ashes. It’s his, it’s theirs, and Charlie suddenly understands what devotion means.

They’re in the hotel a few minutes later and Charlie calls for a physician, stands a little way away as Meyer fusses over Benny and eyes the doctor with distrust when he arrives – and the little walls are back for a while, as Benny is poked and prodded and the towels pooled about his feet are made dark with spilled blood. Meyer stays by his side, levelling cold eyes on the doctor each time Benny cries out or curses or gnashes his teeth (and there’s moisture on the boy’s cheeks); and once or twice Benny’s eyes roll back and his cheeks hollow and Meyer’s there to murmur in Yiddish and brush calloused fingers against sweat-laden skin – grounding, reassuring  _(“Ir nito fayn, ir nito tan azoy gezunt. Ikh bin do. Zey veln laydn.”)_. And Charlie’s looking at Benny, at this child that he hadn’t realised had become a man – and he’s thinking  _I could’a lost him;_ and he’s thinking  _when did that start hurtin’ so goddamn much?_ Then he’s not thinking anymore because his throat feels raw and he’s so  _angry_ that Benny was almost taken from him, them – so drunk on the fact he wasn’t. He’s looking at Benny and wondering when they became more than hurled insults and vitriol.

Then the physician’s gone, ushered out the door; and the bullet’s in Meyer’s breast pocket because he likes the thought of burying Nucky Thompson with a shard still bearing Benny’s blood – a little piece of his downfall. And Benny’s up despite Meyer’s protests – he’s saying he has to go see Esta (despite Meyer’s protests). And Charlie doesn’t want to let him out of his sight, wants to shackle him within the confines of the apartment until Thompson’s reign is a remnant of a darker past; but Benny’s stumbling around, half-high on pain and whiskey, echoing Esta’s name like a mantra  _(gotta see her, gotta make sure no fuckin’ asshole’s gotten’a’er, gotta ‘pologise – it’s Lag BaOmer, Mey)._  So they send Benny on his way with a plague of guards and guns and a promise to return within the hour ripped from his tongue (Meyer glances to his watch) (one hour) (it’ll still be dark).

Charlie’s hand is on Meyer’s arm and he’s drawing him back through the door. The walls recede. Charlie can see Meyer sorting the ticking timer into a little drawer inside his head (fifty seven minutes). And his eyes are warm again.

Then they’re alone in Charlie’s apartment and he’s standing by one of the windows, looking down – out – at this city. And there are no cells in his body; there is no blood – there are bricks and stones, there are rivers. He rests his forehead against the glass and breathes in the dust of a thousand streets; he closes his eyes and thinks, for a moment, he can still see the light twisting up to brush the darkness of the before-dawn sky.

Then he grins, crooked and easy, and turns to Meyer, watching him from his seat in the centre of the room (gold, white,  _royal_ ). Meyer’s loosened his tie and has one arm draped across the limb of the sofa; the other is absentmindedly fingering the brim of his hat, forgotten on his thigh. With an amused snort, Charlie crosses to the drinks cart and pours two lenient glasses of Old Overholt, grinning to himself all the while. He can feel Meyer’s eyes on him (on the little vial he’d slipped from a locked drawer, tucked into his pocket). Glancing over his shoulder to Meyer, he gestures vaguely at the window he’s just abandoned. “Not bad for a wop and a fuckin’ Jew, ‘uh?” There’s the faint clinking of ice cubes against the glass (none for Meyer, it inhibits the taste). The air smells of cologne and spice and dangerous  _pride._

Meyer smiles. “And they all said we couldn’t do it.” (Forty nine minutes).

“Who’s that?” Charlie sniffs, making his way back to Meyer and handing him the ice-free glass; the other is burning his palm like he’s holding winter. Meyer eyes him uncertainly, head titled upwards at such an angle that Charlie can only think it’s an invitation, all that pale, exposed skin under the tie. He grins, leaning forward a little. “Corpses ain’t speak, little Meyer.”

With a small chuckle that turns his eyes to dark, contented slits, Meyer drops his head and raises the glass to his lips, taking a sip. Charlie’s still standing there like a lovesick halfwit, mesmerised by the sight  _(Meyer knows)_. He’s teasing, got his fingers and his voice (low, intimate; he’s talking business like it’s foreplay) coiled tight around Charlie’s neck, around his throat, claiming and possessing, and it’s such a beautiful way to suffocate. And Charlie’s quiet – because Meyer’s a storm and when you hear thunder, you  _listen._ “But we’ll have to be careful, Charlie, like I said. No fuck ups. Nucky Thompson’s a wounded mutt – and wounded mutts still have teeth.”

“He bites, we put ‘im the fuck down.” Charlie seats himself in the chair opposite Meyer.

“Like a dog.” Meyer holds out his glass and they toast  _(silent)_  – to themselves, to Nucky Thompson, to the path they’ve built for themselves  _on their own_ (because fate has only ever spat at them; because destiny begrudges the serfs who glimpsed their future and turned away, forged themselves an empire from the dust). The whiskey burns his throat, sends trails of fire down his spine (or maybe that’s Meyer, the way he’s looking at him like they haven’t touched in centuries, like there aren’t still bruises on Charlie’s back from the last time; maybe it’s the way there’s an  _inferno_ in Meyer’s eyes, a hunger that’s tearing through Charlie’s flesh and making him quiver)  _(and he catches himself hoping Meyer never stops celebrating, not if revelling –_ drowning _– in conquests means_ this).

For a long moment, there’s silence – heavy, thick with the hum of electricity and anticipation. Charlie’s forgotten how to breathe. The glass is growing colder and colder in his hand (he doesn’t feel it; there’s only the heat that’s already beginning to pool around his crotch – the heat in his chest, in his skull). Then, slowly, Meyer digs a cigarette out of his pocket and tucks it between his lips, eyes never leaving Charlie’s. He’s almost smiling at the way Charlie shifts impatiently  _(almost)._ The lighter flicks and then there’s the hiss of a flame lapping at Meyer’s fingertips; his eyes drop to the cigarette for a moment and then a cloud of white smoke pours from his mouth, sweeping upwards, enveloping him in a pale fog, leaving him – for a heartbeat – faceless. The haze clears (Charlie can taste it) and he shifts again, crosses his legs, takes another sip of whiskey – defiant, frustrated, because he can wait, he’s not some sex-starved adolescent, he’ll wait for Meyer to make the first move, tell Charlie that he’s c _omfortable_ and _in the mood_ , and if he doesn’t – and if he’s not – then Charlie’ll  _cope_. Because Meyer means more than a quick fuck.

So he waits. Lets Meyer run his eyes – half-hooded and warm and  _there_  – over every inch of Charlie; lets the lazy smoke rings brush over his cheeks and then dissipate. And his skin is prickling, the air is hellfire and mist – there’s ash on Meyer’s fingers and on his tongue and Charlie is conscious (so a _ware_ of every bead of sweat, every breath that’s growing shallower, raspier) of how his trousers feel too tight and arousal is threading down his legs – stinging, blistering.

He waits. Until he can’t.

“Meyer.” His voice is hoarse and he curses, tries a laugh, a little shrug. “We gonna sit here all fuckin’ night?”

Meyer stares back coolly, bleached smoke escaping through parted lips. Charlie holds his gaze, feels heat creeping down his neck (an ocean of fire that’s coiled in his nerves, a static ocean in which he’s drowning and thanking God for the privilege – a sky of smoke and a sea of desire). The chair is scratching at his skin and his body is so  _weighed down_. Then, with a last drag on his cigarette (not yet half-dead), Meyer extinguishes it in the ashtray on the table before them – between them – and stands, still exhaling smoke like he’s cold marble, like his lungs aren’t burning with a lust just as wonderfully agonising. Charlie’s breath catches and it’s like he’s in the throes of his youth again, craving any touch of skin on skin, so  _hungry._ Meyer, still silent  _(imperial)_ , makes his way around the coffee table, shins just brushing the edges, and stops before Charlie – and Charlie’s staring up at him, throat so dry, stomach twisting, every nerve raw and  _aching._ With scorched coal in his eyes and a face like soft stone, Meyer reaches out and threads his fingers through Charlie’s hair, tangling the curls round his knuckles and tugging a little, wavering on the precipice of pain and  _I’m here._ Adoration.

Charlie’s eyes flicker shut, scalp hot under Meyer’s fingertips; the dull ache in his cock is making him breathless, frantic, and all he can feel is  _Meyer._ But he’s not close enough, never close enough – sew their flesh together with blunt needles and Charlie would beg to have him closer.

“ _Azoy sheyn_ ,” Meyer breathes  _(snarls)_ , palm grazing down to the nape of Charlie’s neck and back up to his crown; Charlie arches into the touch, choking on shuddering exhalations. “ _Sheyn aun mayn.”_

Meyer falls quiet, head tilted a little at the sight – at the  _sound_ – of what Charlie can be reduced to with just one  _touch –_  a king crumbling at the taste of opium, kneeling before lightning. But Charlie, never one to elect mere observation over hands and tongues, sits up from where he’s slumped against the spine of the chair and grasps Meyer’s waist, urging him closer. The fabric of Meyer’s suit jacket is rough under his fingers. Coarse. He raises his eyes, pleading; and Meyer allows himself to be guided forward, closer, Charlie’s hands tripping down his hips as he settles his knees either side of Charlie’s thighs. Charlie chokes out a harsh sigh, light-headed in the sudden flood of warmth and pressure. And,  _fuck_ , he wants to rush, wants to press every inch of himself to Meyer and relieve the strain knotting between his legs. But he stays still, fingertips digging into Meyer’s hips. Breathes. Waits.

But tonight, Meyer has no interest in caution, in control that reduces him to exhaustion. Shifting closer, – and Charlie almost cries out as Meyer moves against his cock – he clenches his fist in the snarls of Charlie’s hair and yanks back, pinioning Charlie more firmly against the chair (and it presses into his spine, makes his shoulder blades twinge). Charlie’s huff of breath is silenced by Meyer’s kiss, insistent and  _victorious_ ; his mouth is scalding, teeth clinking against Charlie’s in the urgency of the contact. Charlie is responding before his mind has quite caught up, tongue running along Meyer’s lower lip (and he tastes of smoke and whiskey and the ash of ancient kingdoms burned to the ground; and they are the sins that slipped through the cracks in Heaven’s walls)  _(the faithful are starving and now they feast)._  With a little sound half breath, half moan (because Meyer is  _quiet_ , so measured, and it’s takes so  _much_ for him to let go; the pleasure of one is secreted away, the other screams his to the world), Meyer catches Charlie’s lip between his teeth and edges closer still, pressing more firmly against Charlie – and he can feel the buttons of Meyer’s jacket imprinting against his chest, feel every ragged inhale, exhale, feel the knot of his tie against his collarbones  _(and it almost hurts)_ ; his breath falters for a heartbeat as Meyer bites down harder and then resumes the kiss, deepens it, tongue whispering across Charlie’s lip (swollen, numb) – soothing, apologising. And Charlie feels like water, hot dust suspended in mid-air, half-there, existing in the corners of eyes.

“ _Cazzo Cristo_ ,” Charlie hisses as Meyer grinds down (light, too light – achingly slow), hipbones rolling down and scraping against Charlie’s, arousal hard against his own; his hands jerk down Meyer’s hips, settling at the sensitive flesh of Meyer’s inner thighs,  _settling_  because he won’t make the first move, c _an’t_. His thumbs dig in, trace deep circles, and Meyer shudders, grinding down a little harder. And it leaves Charlie wincing at the sensation of friction, fingers gripping tighter at Meyer’s legs, begging God to burn away their skin and make them one. _“Caro mio.”_

Meyer smiles against Charlie’s lips, panted breath fanning over Charlie’s cheeks. And then, with the echo of a dying kiss to the corner of Charlie’s mouth, he’s everywhere else, untangling his hands from Charlie’s hair, – slipping down the back of his soft-strung neck, under his ears, his jaw, fingernails lightly scraping, sketching – and beginning work on unravelling Charlie’s tie; he’s lavishing attention on Charlie’s scars with cardinal teeth and tongue and the brush of lips and Charlie forgets to breathe in the stifling fog of heat and sweat (and there’s only Meyer, always Meyer). The tie hisses against the fabric of Charlie’s collar as it’s torn free and discarded. “I want you.” There’s a sandpaper growl in Meyer’s voice against his ear and it’s all Charlie needs to hear.

“You got me,” Charlie grates out, palms shifting to the undersides of Meyer’s knees and dragging him closer with such swiftness that it’s almost violent, his legs forced a little further apart by the movement. Meyer’s startled half-gasp is silenced by a hum of approval as Charlie’s mouth finds the tendons of his neck, planting nips and hot, open kisses.

“No.” Meyer eases his legs open a little wider, knees trapped between Charlie’s hips and the arms of the chair (Charlie can feel his chest heaving, stuttering, against his own and it’s an orchestra of primal needs). “You’re gonna fuck me, Charlie.” There’s no falter, no flush – there’s just Meyer’s hand murmuring down Charlie’s belly, grazing Charlie’s cock. Charlie curses, arches into the touch. “Are you listening, Charlie?” The heel of Meyer’s palm presses against Charlie’s erection, massages slowly, slowly. Charlie chokes out a groan, mouth agape against Meyer’s throat. He nods.

“Y—“ Charlie’s breath wavers as the ministrations of Meyer’s hand grow more confident, the pad of his thumb trailing down the length of Charlie’s cock through too much fabric. “Yeah— _fuck_.”

Meyer nuzzles at the skin beneath Charlie’s ear and he trembles – the feel of Meyer’s hot breath at his neck, the feel of his teeth and tongue leaving bruises, the feel of his weight against Charlie’s chest, legs, cock… Meyer’s fingers drift up to linger at Charlie’s waistband and it’s flames lapping at his skin.  _Searing_. “You’re mine, Charlie? Make me feel like I’m yours.” The words are too quiet, too low, tattooed against his throat and carried away like powder.

And he wants to ask if Meyer’s sure, if this is what he wants – wants to know that he’s not just doing this for Charlie, as an offering to a king. But then Meyer’s rolling his hips again, pinning him against the chair with bones and flesh – and all he can taste is Meyer, all he can  _feel_ is Meyer, and he can’t remember how to think.

So he doesn’t. With a little nod – a little promise – Charlie edges forward, hands at Meyer’s waist silently urging him to stand; Meyer complies, backing off of Charlie’s lap and finding his feet without so much as a sway. Charlie follows, head swimming and heart astringent – there’s so much  _doubt_  because this (being told to take the lead, to dominate, to  _control_ ) is such unfamiliar territory and he’s running blind, he’s going to lose his way, he’s going to stumble and fuck it up and  _sink_. But then Meyer’s fingers are in his hair and he’s pulling him down for a hungry kiss and he’s saying  _it’s not like that; I’m not asking for that; nothing’s changed. I’m here._ And Charlie can breathe again. He presses himself to Meyer, hands finding his stubble-grazed cheeks and tilting his head back for a deeper kiss; his thumbs are at Meyer’s jaw and he can feel every breath, every muscle clicking – and then he’s  _moaning_  and Charlie’s grinning against his lips, drowning in the chimerical feeling of not knowing where Meyer ends and he begins.

Never breaking the contact (because this kiss is a lifeline – Meyer’s mouth can spin such pretty lies and threats but right now it’s wet and burning and  _begging_ ), Charlie guides him towards the desk, their steps a disjointed tango of Meyer backwards, Charlie forwards. Meyer’s hands glide from his hair to his belly, fingers beginning work on Charlie’s belt like his nerves aren’t just as frayed; Charlie hums into his mouth, thumb brushing over Meyer’s cheekbone. Then Meyer’s against the desk, one hand moving to steady himself, fingers splayed against the oak – the other’s scorching through the shirt beneath Charlie’s ribs. He’s leaning back, half-sitting, heels scarcely skimming the floor, and Charlie leans over him, pausing a moment to drink in the sight of Meyer breathless – breathless and waiting and  _hard_. Charlie grins and alights a tender kiss on the corner of his mouth. “World ain’t never gonna fuckin’ know how I can make you look,” he chuckles, voice a grating rasp. He edges his knee between Meyer’s legs, breath shuddering at the feel of Meyer’s erection against his thigh, at the way Meyer rocks his hips forward and presses against Charlie’s leg. “Cold Meyer Lansky.”

Something in Meyer’s eyes change, some little flicker that almost makes Charlie regret having spoken. Then he’s kissing Charlie again, so ferociously that Charlie’s caught off guard (and Meyer’s biting down on already-red lips, saying  _8 to 1 chance I can make you look worse_ ); he’s torn off his jacket, waistcoat, shirt, abandoned them on the floor; moved his hands to his own belt and turned to face the desk. And Charlie’s light-headed, suffocating on all the lust in his lungs like it’s smoke – like it’s nicotine and he’s  _addicted_. Licking his lips, Charlie looks down at Meyer (and it’s like being presented with a god and told  _it’s yours; keep it safe_ ). His palms trail down Meyer’s back (every vertebra in his spine, every rib; every freckle, every scar), his hips, his ass. And, fuck, he’s beautiful. He bows and breathes prayers of worship into Meyer’s skin (feels him quiver under his lips)  _(and if there’s an ‘I love you’ concealed amongst the hymns then who’s to know?)_.

With one hand, Charlie fishes the vial out of the jacket he’d discarded atop the desk and removes the lid, pouring the liquid into his palm. And when he begins to coat his aching cock with the slickness, it’s almost enough to finish him then and there; he draws in a hissing breath, tipping his head back, and there are white spots leaping at the edge of his vision.

“Charlie.” There’s the hint of a growl in Meyer’s voice.

“Yeah?” And a pant in Charlie’s. His thumb passes over his slit and it takes everything in him not to cry out.

Meyer glances behind him, shoulder blades shifting as he repositions himself, both hands braced against the desk.  _You touchin’ yourself when you’ve got me here, like this? (Did I say you could?)_

Charlie squeezes his eyes shut and chokes back a gasp, offering an unsteady almost-smile.  _Sorry, Mey. Didn’t mean to hurt your feelin’s or nothin’._

Grazing his lips against the back of Meyer’s neck, he settles one hand at the curve of Meyer’s waist (there’s that quiver again – little Meyer, to whom the sensation of affection is still so often regarded as foreign; Meyer, who’s only ever known winter) and the other beside Meyer’s on the desk, thumb just brushing his wrist. For a long moment they merely breathe, Charlie’s face buried between Meyer’s shoulder blades and his hand rambling lazily down his cock, down the slickness and the  _aching_. He raises his head to bite tenderly at the ridge of Meyer’s spine.

A moment. Then, with the last inhalation of a man soon to disappear underwater and perhaps never resurface, Charlie eases into Meyer. Meyer grunts, sucking in a sharp breath; he tilts his head back and Charlie can see him smothering everything he’s feeling, burying it under his tongue like there’s a noose round his lovely throat.

“Okay, Meyer?” Charlie murmurs into his ear, hand tracing shallow circles against his skin. He presses an open kiss to Meyer’s neck and tastes sweat.

But when Meyer tips his head to look at Charlie, there’s an intoxicated smile at his mouth. “What’d I say, Charlie?” He sways backward, taking more of Charlie into him (and Charlie can’t remember ever having seen him so free, so dazed and tipsy on triumph and touch and taste) (the walls will be back with the sun but right now, it’s dark; and there’s deniability to be found under the cover of darkness). Charlie groans, burying his face against Meyer’s shoulder, and he can’t stop himself from rocking forward to pin Meyer’s hips against the desk, so  _lost_  in the feeling of Meyer around his cock, in the heat. “ _Fuck me._ ”

It’s all Charlie needs to hear. He’s withdrawing, pushing back in – slowly, slowly; then faster, deeper, fingernails digging red crescent graves into the pliant flesh of Meyer’s waist. Meyer bows his head, drawing in hisses and silencing them before they leave his mouth. Oh, Charlie’ll make him scream. He leans further over Meyer, chest against his back urging Meyer down until he’s flattened to the desk; Charlie’s hands find the backs of Meyer’s and he interlaces their fingers, sowing a kiss and a soft bite to the ridge of his spine. His thrusts are coming quicker, harder, hips rolling and stuttering.  _Meyer, Meyer…_

Faster.

Deeper.

Charlie releases his hand in favour of threading his fingers through Meyer’s hair, tightening his grip just forcefully enough, wrenching just forcefully enough, that Meyer’s head is half-forced back; Charlie meets his mouth, swallowing down every sound that Meyer can’t quite stifle with ravenous teeth. There’s scarcely an inch of Charlie’s flesh not crushed to Meyer’s (and every point of contact is  _volcanic_ ). He releases his grip and Meyer’s head falls back to rest against the desk, cheek pressed to nameless papers and smudged sums. With a gentle little nudge at Meyer’s ankle, his legs are spread further.

And it would be so  _easy_ to finish him then and there, to fuck him until every nerve in his body knows Charlie’s name. But Meyer did so  _good_ today and he wants to show him, wants to  _show him_. So he’s lowering himself to his knees, hands rasping down to settle at Meyer’s ass; he’s nipping at the flesh, losing himself in the way Meyer’s startled rumble submits to a greedy hum; he’s parting Meyer’s cheeks with his fingertips  _(and Meyer is choking back curses)._ His tongue brushes over his entrance and Meyer’s inhaling shuddering breaths, bracing himself more firmly against the desk; Charlie flattens his tongue, savouring the feeling of Meyer’s heat and wetness, of how he’s tensing and relaxing into his touch. And it’s the most beautiful form of worship Charlie knows. He presses forward and then he’s fucking Meyer with his tongue, withdrawing and re-entering in an unholy harmony of creed and licentiousness; and he's swirling his tongue, teasing Meyer's entrance - nibbling, lapping, kissing. And every little sound from Meyer - growing louder, louder, sharp gasps and rushing blood - is godly.

When Meyer is close to unravelling, Charlie retreats and finds his feet, drunk on the lingering feeling of Meyer around his lips; he eases back in, thrusts.

_Faster._

_Deeper._

Rolling hips and too-little breath—

And Meyer’s silence shatters into the hellfire air; he’s gasping Charlie’s name once, twice – and  _Charlie_  suddenly sounds holy. It’s all it takes. With a cracked curse yelped against Meyer’s neck, he comes; and it wracks his entire body, streaming through every vein, every nerve, and for a heartbeat he’s blind, drowning in this heat and light. His knees buckle and he slumps against Meyer’s back, filling liquid lungs with the heady scent of sex and devotion. “Meyer…” he mumbles against his skin, untangling one of his hands to brush damp hair from Meyer’s brow. Meyer hums contentedly. They’re there for a long moment, one soul in two bodies, and it’s impossible to tell which gradually slowing heartbeat belongs to whom. There’s just a languid warmth, a heaviness burrowing deep down into Charlie’s limbs. He raises himself with shuddering arms and peppers slow, lethargic  _(obeisant)_  kisses down Meyer’s back – tongue at muscles; teeth at bone. His lips trail back to Meyer’s shoulder and he rests his chin against it, gazing down at Meyer’s closed eyes, at his flickering lashes. “Okay?” he echoes  _(was I okay?)_ , tilting his head to recline against the crook of Meyer’s shoulder and neck.

Meyer’s lips draw back into a small, tired smile. “Good, Charlie.” He shifts and Charlie pries himself from Meyer, steps back; Meyer turns  and, with arms just as weak, hoists himself up to sit atop the desk. Charlie edges closer, stepping between Meyer’s legs and lazily draping his arms round his waist; Meyer’s palms – sweat-slick and warm – settle under Charlie’s ears, drawing him forward to touch their foreheads together. “Good.” Their breaths mingle, whispering over fragile flesh and drowsy frames. And it’s such a divine victory.

(Twenty seven minutes).

\----------------------------------------------

Benny’s thirteen minutes late and it’s crept past four in the morning. A breeze is scratching at the windows with gasping lungfuls of almost-summer; New York is centuries below, black and flickering. But there are wisps of cinder under Charlie’s skin, curling into sinew with fingers too blunt; and the outside is creeping in through the fine cracks in bricks, early morning grey alighting away with the warm darkness of his apartment. It’s dark and he’s exhaling lax heat into the first hours, curled atop the blankets of his bed (there are always too many – none fear the chill like men with memories of a childhood spent trembling). It’s dark and warm and there’s a weariness behind his irises that feels like falling from sun-raged mountains; there’s the pillows at his crown because he’s lying there like he’s finally stopped bowing to another king (and his skin is  _raw_ ). Meyer’s beside him – they’re just touching, fingers and knuckles meeting in the middle of this ocean; and they’re back in their clothes (enough to be decent; shirts untucked and rolled up to elbows), bruised flesh still melting away. Charlie’s listening to him breathe; wondering if Meyer’s ever looked at him and forgotten how to.

Then Benny’s back and they’re dropping each other’s hands and sitting up; he’d welcomed himself up to the apartment (the nameless faces at the front desk knew him, knew the young prince from the king’s court; knew to lower their eyes; knew he was steeped in a tide of blood) (most of it his own). And he lets himself in, flicking on the lights and stumbling into the bedroom like there’s a compass under his skin pointing to  _home_. His gaze sweeps over the sight of Charlie and Meyer on the bed, lingers, but he says nothing. He perches himself on the edge of the mattress and prods at the red already seeping through fresh trousers, mutters something under his breath.

Charlie glances at Meyer –  _you handle it._  Meyer shifts closer to Benny. “You spoke to Esta?”

“Spoke, Mey? Sure, we fuckin’ spoke.” There’s a shout in his voice but he hasn’t raised his voice. Bending over, he starts untying his shoes and shaking them from his feet. “She threw me out – all because those fuckin’ cocksuckin’ Jersey cunts wouldn’t give me the fuckin’ phone. Says I ain’t cut out to be a father if I’m comin’ home at all fuckin’ hours.” He tosses one shoe across the room; it hits the wall and Charlie glowers at the back of Benny’s head. “Says she don’t wanna raise this kid in a place where people are schleppin’ blood all over the fuckin’ carpet. Fuck, y’know, it’s my kid, too!” He bows his head, fingernails digging into his scalp amidst unruly hair.

“She’ll calm down.”

“Broads like to throw a big tantrum and then they’re crawling back to you in a day,” Charlie adds with a sniff. Conversations concerning wives never fail to make his stomach churn. “She’ll be beggin’ to have you back by noon tomorrow.”

The words have scarcely left his mouth and Benny’s turned on him, all bloodshot eyes and curled lips. “Yeah, you know what, Charlie? Why don’t you shut your fat fuckin’ mouth already, huh? Do us all a fuckin’ favour.”

“Benny…”

He pitches the other shoe at the floor with as much force as he can muster, scoffing. “I always draw the fuckin’ short straw and then it’s my fault.”

“No one’s blaming you, Benny.” Meyer’s speaking like he’s soothing a skittish creature, reaching out to lay his hand on Benny’s upper arm. And Benny looks ready to jerk away but then he’s relaxing into the touch, hanging his head and rubbing at his eyes with balled fists.

“I fuck everythin’ up.” The words are scarcely there, breathed out like Benny had expected a sigh and found his voice instead. Then he’s backing up and collapsing down atop the blankets, head resting in the crooks of his arms. Meyer and Charlie exchange another glance  _(“he’ll sleep it off”; “20 fuckin’ years of naps ain’t gonna help his attitude”; “he’s had a rough night”; “yeah, well, so’ve I”)_ (he doesn’t mean it) (he knows Benny’s hurting) before lowering themselves to recline either side of him.

It’s quiet for a long time. Three sets of lungs; three hearts pounding a chorus into the still pre-dawn. Benny’s wired like cables beside him, battery-powered and voltaic and hot. Their shoulders are touching but Benny hasn’t moved away (and you wouldn’t know from looking at him just how rigidly he holds himself). Charlie blinks slowly, eyelids heavy; he’s staring up at the ceiling, thinking  _no mould, no water stains, no crumbling fortress._ And it starts to feel like it did years ago – before the night he first touched Meyer as a lover; before Benny’s juvenile warring against him turned sour and bloody and spiteful. It feels like years ago, when they’d curl up on the sofa and Benny didn’t yet bear his teeth at any movement Charlie made. He closes his eyes and concentrates on how it feels being close to Benny when he’s not spitting poison like a viper, when he’s just a solid warmth beside him.

Then Benny’s disturbing the silence with a little noise deep in his throat, pondering and dissatisfied and  _bitter_. “Nothin’s gonna fuckin’ change, is it?”

There’s the poison. He didn’t expect it to sting. “He says, lyin’ in the Waldorf Towers like some John D. Rockefeller asshole. You want somethin’ better?”

“I mean I risk my ass, I’m a fuckin’ fly’s cooze away from gettin’ it for good, and I’m still gonna get treated like I’m some scrawny, bald-cocked kid? I’ll kill for you but I ain’t good enough to be treated with a little fuckin’ respect? Wasn’t for me, Maranzano’d still be houndin’ your ass and the Thompson kid’d be back suckin’ at his Mami’s tit.”

“We don’t know for sure Thompson’s gonna hold up his end,” Charlie mutters, sighing when Benny props himself up on his elbows with a jerk. “Family ain’t that important to some people.”

“Oh, so now you’re—“

“Ain’t we had this conversation already?”

The pale, dusty light filtering in through the crevices between curtains has cast Benny’s face into shadows (and he looks ghostly). “Hey, asshole, here’s somethin’ to think about when you get up on your  _‘I’m a fuckin’ dago, family is everything’_ high horse bullshit: if you’d been the one snatched, you wouldn’t have had to wait a whole fuckin’ day before someone finally thinks  _‘hmm, I ain’t seen Charlie today, maybe I should check up on him’._ But, wait, that ain’t even what happened! I called and you didn’t fuckin’ believe me.” Benny sniffs, falls silent, and when he speaks again it’s in a low voice. “Some fuckin’ family.”

There’s a lot Charlie could say. He could say bein’ out at all hours is part of the job and he can’t expect someone to be keeping tabs and checking in every half hour to make sure no one’s been knocked off or kidnapped. He could say their positions within the outfit are infinitely different. He could get angry and shout and shove Benny out the door. But there’s this little note he can hear under all Benny’s bravado, like a melancholy flute under brass and percussion. And it’s pained and it’s childlike and it’s so very, very sad. And it’s been there for a few years now (he thinks Meyer’s always been able to hear it better than him).

For a long moment it’s quiet; there’s only Benny’s strangled breaths and the copper tang of lifeblood (there are other sheets, it doesn’t matter). There’s only grey giving way to blue and a vast city taking in its first mouthfuls of smog, exhaling life abandoned in the night at the hands of the guilty (there isn’t an innocent soul in this city of opal dreams and pitch-dark reality). Then Meyer – silent Meyer, who’s been still and listening – moves his hand to take Benny’s wrist, skin hissing lightly across the blankets. Benny glances over his shoulder; Meyer meets his eyes; and Charlie’s an intruder, trespassing upon the corrupt piety etched in the lines of Benny’s face. Charlie supposes it’s been there a while now; supposes it must be on his face, too. And it’s a sudden revelation, an easy one –  _oh_. Meyer inspires devotion like the gods of old commanded the wind and Charlie’s not the only one to have been swept up in the gale.

“You don’t think we would’ve torn every city apart till we found you?” Meyer’s skin is pale in the light – lighter still against the cherry of the bedspread. His voice scrapes. Exhaustion.

“Thompson wouldn’t’a lived another day, anythin’ happen to you,” Charlie adds in a near-soundless rumble; and he’s going to add a quip, a  _‘even if you are a pain in the ass’_ , but Benny’s eyes are on him for half a second and suddenly the thought of cutting him down is enough to break Charlie’s heart. 

“You being here isn’t optional, Benny. It’s you, me, Charlie. Always has been.”

Benny drops his gaze to where Meyer has yet to release him and Charlie’s suddenly a teller of fortunes yet to be weaved – he hears the rasp in Benny’s lungs, sees himself whole lifetimes ago (it’s 1920 and Meyer’s alive, he’s alive,  _they’re alive_ , and they touch to prove that stitched hearts can still pump blood; it’s 1931 and Benny’s alive, alive – bloody and unbroken and  _alive_ ). And Charlie knows their future even before the glass cogs in Benny’s head have ceased to toil.

A moment passes. Then Benny exhales a silent breath and half-turns, lowering himself to find Meyer’s lips with his own. The kiss is light, uncertain – Benny’s hand lingers tentatively somewhere above Meyer’s shoulder, feeling for tensed muscles or bones made taut by recoil. (And Charlie’s watching, thinking vaguely that two-thirds of a family had never felt quite right anyway; thinking that, looking back, it was only a matter of time, that it’s the most natural thing in the world; the finishing piece to their puzzle). With no more than a flesh-drowned hum (quiet, thoughtful –  _reassuring_ ), Meyer’s deepening the kiss, drawing his fingers up to brush over Benny’s cheek. For a heartbeat, Benny freezes – the shock of a drowning man who’d plunged into the cold waters and discovered he could breathe; the shock of a hopeless man condemned to death and granted reprieve. Then he’s grinning, kissing like he’s been suffocating for ten years and at last he’s found air; he’s worshipping Meyer with his hands, fingers in his hair, on his face, his neck, and there’s so much  _finally_. Benny’s frantic and Meyer cools the fever with slow, deep kisses and gentle caresses, guiding Benny into shelter from the tempest –  _it’s okay, it’s okay_. Charlie’s never seen Meyer so tender. And the sight of them is sending helices of arousal coiling down his body, washing over him with prickling static.  

When Benny finally draws back for fleeting breath, inhaling dust and electricity through lips red and stubble-scraped, Meyer trails his hand down to his jaw, holding him at bay with a pacifying firmness. “Benny…” Benny ignores him, bowing to steal another kiss. Meyer allows it – knows to give him this small happiness with loving touch – but there’s a stiffness in his spine now. Perhaps that’s one way in which Charlie knows Meyer better – knows how to interpret any little movement as  _‘yes, I want to’_ or  _‘no, I don’t’_.

As Benny shifts closer, Meyer eases his head back with placating hands, thumb resting at Benny’s lower lip and running over his teeth. Benny’s mouth hovers over his, sharing panted breaths and wet heat. “You… You don’t wanna?” His voice is small and cracked; he’s nuzzling at Meyer’s cheek, eyelashes fluttering against his skin; he’s drawing Meyer’s thumb into his mouth, pressing down with the softest of bites.

“I do, Benny.” Calm, quiet. He brushes a lock of hair from Benny’s eyes. “But not now.”

“I ain’t good enough?” He’s not accusing; he’s afraid. And he’ll learn – learn not to ask such questions because Meyer’s already wondering the same things about himself. He’ll learn. For now, Meyer – patient beyond what may be wise when it comes to Benny – shakes his head, fingers rhythmically – peacefully – grazing Benny’s jawline.

“You’re good, Benny.  _Ir’re sheyn. An ander tog._ ” He waits till he’s holding Benny’s gaze. “ _Ya?_ ”

Benny’s silent for a moment. Then he submits with a small nod. “Yeah.”

Meyer offers a thin smile. Then he tips his head to look at Charlie – there’s a question there, amidst the thawed warmth and all that darkness.  _Is this okay?_ Yeah. Yeah, it’s okay. Maybe it’s always been there, tucked away behind the backdrop of their little play – maybe they’ve been blind to it. It must’ve been there, he thinks. How else could it feel like nothing’s changed? Like all they’ve done is slip into the inevitable next Act? Benny follows Meyer’s half-lidded stare, meeting Charlie’s gaze. His hackles raise for a heartbeat, defensive, defiant. Then the challenge is subsiding and all that’s left is another question.

Swallowing thickly, Charlie bridges the whisper of distance between them, meets Benny in that thin ridge of shadow he’s been ensnared in since dawn broke. Benny’s rigid, staring him down with a half-glare, daring him; then, almost imperceptibly, he retreats from the close proximity, shrinks back against the familiar comfort of Meyer.

The room is airless, broiling and smoky and laced with the very human perfume of blood and mortal craving. Charlie stills and his eyes are saying  _only if you want_ (it’s more choice than Charlie’d ever been given, when he’d been young and pretty and searching for a way – any way – to break free of paucity) (he doesn’t think about that now) _._ He can see the muscles in Benny’s jaw working, teeth grinding. Then, with a tremor, Benny leans closer, lips crushing against Charlie’s far more viciously than they had Meyer’s. The kiss is deep and fierce and he can feel Benny holding his breath, swallowing down a decade and a half of odium  _(envy)_ ; there’s a stiffness in his bones, in the way he’s cradling Charlie’s cheek in his palm like it’s a threat and in the way he’s made their mouths a battlefield. Charlie can only react, mimicking the savage attentions of Benny’s teeth and tongue because he doesn’t have Meyer’s influence over him; he can’t cool, calm,  _comfort_  with one look, one touch. But he can feel Meyer’s eyes on them (feel the contentment radiating from him in tranquil waves) and it must be enough for Benny because he’s slowly deliquescing into the freefall, letting Charlie’s fingers press lightly into his waist, letting himself edge from Meyer’s sanctuary to meet Charlie on equal ground. And there’s a little more warmth in his fingertips; a little more  _so what? Maybe I do like it_.

Benny’s hand drifts from Charlie’s cheek, stilling on his hand (leaving blue, black, purple in Benny’s flesh) to guide it down to his budding erection. And there’s a bit of pride in the way Benny’s fingers present himself, a bit of  _see?_  Charlie draws in a sharp breath, heat deluging through him at the moan (gasping, lost) a short stroke entices from Benny – at how delicate and  _beautiful_  he feels, how familiar (he’ll never say he’s dreamed of this before). And—

“Watch what you’re fuckin’ doin’,” Benny hisses, pants, against Charlie’s lips, through clenched teeth and around a swollen tongue. He shifts, pointedly knocking his knee against Charlie’s ribs as he repositions his wounded leg. “I had half a goddamn metal factory in there. Fuckin’ asshole.”

But his words are washing about Charlie’s ears, faint and nonsensical; he’s too lightheaded, too enraptured by the lingering feeling of Benny against him (he never knew neon chaos could have a taste), by the heat of breath against his skin and the sweat at the nape of Benny’s neck. He scarcely hears Meyer’s little hum, fond and amused and  _you were going so well._ With an apologetic mumble, Charlie resumes the kiss, shifting closer to splay his palms on the smooth planes of Benny’s hips, gently easing him backwards against the bed. For a moment Benny resists; but then Meyer’s hand is at the small of his back, mild, guiding, and Benny lets himself fall back against the pillows and the deep red. And he’s staring up at Charlie with a flesh-tempting smile and eyes more dark, half-hooded pools; and Charlie hadn’t realised Benny’d slipped off his waistcoat but now there’s so much pale skin under his shirt – Benny tilts his head back and Charlie’s gaze sweeps greedily over his slowly-bobbing throat, over the collarbones like anchors amidst a sea of milky waters. And Meyer’s tearing his eyes between them both, imbedding his heavy glance under their skin like hooks; and the look on his face is the closest thing to a thank you Charlie’s ever heard from him.

With stumbling fingers, Charlie unhooks Benny’s belt and pries open his fly – pauses a moment to sink into the sound of Benny’s soft moan  _(whimper – it might have been Charlie’s name)_ , swiftly drowned by Meyer’s lips. Benny arches his back as Charlie draws his trousers down to his thighs and marvels with hungry eyes at the sight before him: Benny’s groans and sighs lost in Meyer’s mouth, trapped against Meyer’s thumb tracing the edges of his lips with such adulation; Benny’s cock, erect and beautiful and begging to be claimed. He can hear Meyer murmuring quiet praises against Benny’s lips, see Benny turning molten, crumbling into nothing and being rebuilt. Eyes flickering shut, Charlie’s fingers curl around Benny’s cock, around the heat and the trembling flesh; Benny’s winded curse is swallowed by Meyer and Charlie’s palm slips up, down, falling into an easy rhythm with each of Benny’s gasps and pleasure-torn shudders. Charlie bows, grazing the breath of a kiss against Benny’s slit, drifting down to swirl his tongue over his inner thigh. A breathless cry pours from Benny, escapes past Meyer’s teeth, hangs echo-like in the air. With a velvet bliss settling deep within him, Charlie glides his mouth back to Benny’s cock, tongue darting out to trail up the sensitive skin already sweet with pre-cum. Benny’s fingers are in his hair, clenching and scraping with blunt nails. They stay there, each fingertip electrified and  _burning_ , as Charlie trades his mouth for his hand, palm slick and eager to please; he retreats upwards, lips brushing Benny’s stomach, chest, tongue sweeping over each rib and toying with his left nipple. His teeth leave bruises like smudges of charcoal on fine sleet – one, two, three.

Meyer glances up as Charlie’s curls tickle his wrist; Charlie meets his kiss-drunk gaze and it’s falling in love all over again – it’s that knot in his lungs when Meyer’s eyes crease into a thin smile and his fingers drift from Benny’s jaw to Charlie’s chin, drawing him in for a kiss that tastes of triumph and iniquity and  _Benny_. It’s Meyer reclaiming Benny’s scorched mouth and Charlie’s lips at Benny’s throat; it’s his fingers round Benny’s cock – and, finally, it’s Benny spilling over his hand, body tortured by the purity of fulfilled desire.

Shuddering and bleary-eyed, Benny collapses back against the pillows, one hand falling weakly from where it had been nestled at the back of Meyer’s neck, the other, from where it had been bunching the sheets. Wiping his hand on the covers, and with a drowsy smile, Charlie turns to lie on his side, facing Benny; Meyer echoes his movement and they hold each other’s gazes over Benny’s heaving chest –  _so this is our life now; it has been for years._ Rolling over, Meyer reaches for the nightstand and reappears with two cigarettes clasped between his lips. “You want one?” He glances to Benny, the question low and half-smothered. Benny shakes his head, eyes already closed. 

A flick of the lighter and smoke is ebbing from Meyer’s mouth, snaking into the mid-morning light; Charlie takes his cigarette, fills his lungs, his elbow resting lazily on Benny’s abdomen. He’s watching Meyer, the way his eyes have wilted shut, the way the smoke catches in his hair. And this is warm and right and  _home_. This is worn muscles and chaste touch after the ecstasy of turpitude; this is ash mingling with the taste of familiar skin and arousal surrendering to simple affection, care. This is  _it’s taken half a lifetime but we’re here._

Benny breaks the silence with an amused little sound. Charlie feels it reverberating under his hand. “Think they’ll put up a memorial here when we’re all in the ground?  _‘Lucky Luciano lived here. Slept here. Fucked here’_.” His words are slurred but he’s grinning. 

Meyer chuckles, exhaling a veil of white and grey. “They ain’t suicidal.”

“Nobody’d ever live here again.”

Charlie  _hmm_ ’s in place of comment, already yielding to the weight behind his eyes. He feels Meyer take the dwindling cigarette from his fingers, hears him murmur something to one of them, or both; feels him wedge his hand under Charlie’s atop Benny’s ribs. And there’s only Benny’s breaths evening out and dissolving into quiet snores. There’s only the lingering wisps of smoke and the white noise of New York. There’s only Benny and Meyer. There’s only them.

That’s all there’s ever been, really.

 

**Author's Note:**

> "ir nito fayn, ir nito tan azoy gezunt. ikh bin do. zey veln laydn": ok i've honestly forgotten but it's something along the lines of "you're fine, you're safe. i'm here. they will suffer". 
> 
> "azoy sheyn. sheyn aun mayn": "so beautiful. beautiful and mine". 
> 
> "cazzo cristo. caro mio": "fucking christ. my darling". 
> 
> "ir’re sheyn. an ander tog. ya?”: "you're beautiful. another day. yes?"


End file.
